


Orfeo

by Waltzing



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Action, Blood and Gore, Entry #80, Gen, Horror, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waltzing/pseuds/Waltzing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Orpheus myth. Tim rescues Jay. There are repercussions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doors Unopened

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a few weeks after Entry #80 came out, but this is the first it's been posted anywhere. We have had Entries #81 and #82 since then, so some depictions of places and how they "work" don't match up exactly with canon. Still, without giving much away, I think it's cool that the latest MH entry also focuses on some of the weirdness associated with certain iconic landmarks in the series.
> 
> Inspiration for both the story and the title comes from a medieval English poem based on the Orpheus myth, called [Sir Orfeo](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Orfeo), where Orfeo ventures to the Otherworld to rescue Heurodis. This interpretation of the Otherword is actually what set me off: "the theme of another world of people who are taken at the point of death (but who are not dead) is a well-established element in folklore..."

Tim wakes up shivering, his face pressed hard against the damp ground. His head is pounding, like the tail end of a migraine, and around him is silence, of which he would be more welcoming if he knew where exactly he is, and whether he is safe.

He struggles to sit upright and glances around. It is evening, he thinks, and nearly dark. He can just about make out tree trunks, branches, foliage... his heart rate shoots up dramatically and he wraps his arms around himself, gasping for air. It's not like this is the first time he has woken up in a place with no memory of how he got there. But however many times it has happened, it isn't something he has gotten used to.

He staggers to his feet as a cool breeze stirs the branches above, shaking cold droplets of water onto the ground and onto him. He shivers again. Tall trees. This is all too familiar.

How many times as a child had he woken up here in the middle of the night? It had happened more recently, too, but at least that time Jay had been nearby, equally as confused... _Don't_ , he tells himself. _Don't follow that line of thought. You need to get out._ He brushes leaf litter from his hair and clothes and realises he is lost. He knows the park, yes, but disoriented as he is, this is not a part of it he recognises in the half-light.

It is getting steadily darker. _No time to get your bearings, just move. Now_. He turns frantically and makes his way towards a gap in the surrounding trees. As he does so, he kicks something hard on the ground. Something solid and heavy, something that shouldn't be there. He picks it up. A camera, the tiny red recording light glowing. He turns it in his hands. _Jay's_ camera.

And everything comes crashing back to him at once: how he had woken up early that morning to a notification from his phone: Totheark had uploaded a video. How his breath had caught in his throat when Jay's final moments had appeared on his screen again, distorted and barely recognisable after Totheark's edits. But Tim had known it instantly: he hadn't been able to bring himself to watch Jay's final recordings again after posting it online - editing the footage had been bad enough. And there was Totheark forcing it on him, as if he thought Tim could _forget_.

He had nearly missed the string of numbers that ended the video. The next few hours had been spent trying out every online code breaker he could find and applying all the keys he could remember from his and Jay's past decoding attempts, but nothing seemed to work.

He remembered his relief the moment one of Jay's, no, one of _his_ followers had cracked it, posting to his Twitter: "Lead me to him. Lead me to them. Lead me to the -"

At that moment, a noise from the back bedroom had made him jump out of his seat.

He was alone in the house. He was _meant_ to be alone in the house.

He had grabbed the nearest heavy object to hand - a metal table lamp, wrenching it from its socket.  Holding it in front of him, he had carefully made his way down the hall towards the room. He had entered in time to see the guy in the hoodie climbing out of the window, a camera in one hand - _Jay's_ camera. Tim had taken it from Benedict Hall himself. He had got what footage he could off of it and then relegated it to the back bedroom because he couldn't bear to look at it. It still had a smear of Jay's blood on it.

"Hey!" he had yelled. "Stop!" He took off after the guy, struggling out of the window, down the drive, across the street between houses and backyards and garages, chasing him until he could barely breathe, until the cramping pain in his side brought him to a standstill. He didn't know why the camera was so important to him. But the hooded guy had taken so much already, Tim was damned if he was going to let him take this too, the only thing he had left of Jay's.

It was at this point he had realised he'd left the chest-mounted camera behind. Tim had taken to wearing it around as much as possible - after the last of his medicine had been stolen, he knew it was only a matter of time before he blacked out and the other _him_ \- the one in the mask - took over. He had been dreading that moment, but reasoned that if he couldn't stop it from happening, at least he would be able to record exactly what he'd been doing while he was in that state.

The chestcam was back in his room, helpfully trained on where he had been sitting in front of his laptop only minutes before. He had taken it off for a breather because the harness had gotten uncomfortable. More fool him.

With the hooded man way ahead of him, Tim had started to cough. _No_ , he'd thought weakly as it got worse, bringing him to his knees. _Why here, why now?_ He had coughed and choked until his throat was raw. Stars had danced in his vision and unbearable pressure had built up inside his head. He had knelt in the middle of that quiet suburban street coughing his lungs out while the hooded guy raced ahead. _Wasn't someone going to help him?_ he remembered thinking. _He's getting away_. At that point he must have blacked out -

\- And woken up several hours later in the middle of Rosswood Park, in the gathering dark, with no recollection of what had happened in between then and now.

He shakes his head, bewildered. There isn't enough light now for him to safely navigate the roots and fallen branches that litter this part of the park, but there is no way he is going to hang around here until daylight. It is then that he realises what he is holding: Jay's camera has nightvision.

He struggles with the controls until he finds the right setting. Holding up the viewfinder to his eyes, and surveying his surroundings in their greenish glow, he sees trees, some overgrown roots there, a potential path he could take to the left of it. He turns around - a fallen tree. And _him_. The hooded guy. Standing there, watching him.  

"You." Tim advances on the man, who turns and runs. "Wait!" Tim follows him, glancing at the camera screen to check where he is going. Despite the fact that he has a nightvision camera and the Hooded man surely can barely see anything, he still evades Tim.

"Stop! Please!" The man continues running. Tim follows him, feeling he has no other option. Maybe the hooded guy knows the way out. At one point, the man stops and turns, as if to check if Tim is still following him. "Wait!" Tim gasps out, "Why did you bring me here?" The hooded man surveys him for a second, then turns and runs again. Tim didn't truly expect an answer. He follows the man, knowing this is a bad idea, but he is beyond caring about such banal concerns as personal safety these days.

He is out of breath again soon, and can feel a cough bubbling up in his chest that he tries to push down, without success. He shudders, bending forward, his hands on his knees. When he is done coughing he looks up. Only to find he is at the tunnel. The one where Alex killed that stranger. The one from where Tim was stolen away by that thing all those months ago. The one where he told Jay to run, to save himself. Tim only knows of that through the video footage: like so much of his past, he has no memory of it happening.

He hears movement up ahead. The hooded man has appeared in between the nearby trees.

"What do you want from me?" Tim gasps out, his coughing fit having stolen his breath. If the hooded man even hears him, he doesn't reply, just stares, silently watching. Tim wants to go up to the guy, to shake him, to hit him, to unmask him. But the coughing has sapped all his strength and he doesn't think he could win this fight. "Okay," he says to himself, "I'm leaving." At least he knows the way out from here. He brings the camera up to his eyes and turns to look for the path. And that is the moment when he hears it.

A voice. A familiar voice. As if from a distance, words indistinct, but unmistakeably  -

_Jay_. Tim whips around. "Jay?"

It can't be. Jay was taken. Jay is... gone. He strains his ears again. Nothing. _Did I imagine it?_ He glances back at the hooded man, but he is still there, watching Tim intently. Tim is shaking. It's this place, playing tricks on his mind, he is sure _. I need to leave_. He takes a step and then hears it, faint as before. Jay's voice, as if coming from... Tim realises, _as if coming from the tunnel_. He goes over to the tunnel entrance slowly, in wonder and confusion.

"...Jay?" he whispers. No response.

He looks back at the hooded man. Still there, staring, unmoving, nothing to indicate whether Tim is imagining it, whether he heard it too.

"Where are you?" Tim's own voice echoes back at him, reverberating off the corrugated iron of the tunnel. He holds the camera up, but it detects nothing, just the lack of light. He stands there quietly, at the mouth of the tunnel, staring into the void blackness, straining to hear anything. But there is nothing there, he was imagining it. Tim lets out a shaky breath. He gives one last look at the hooded figure by the treeline, then turns towards the path that leads out of the park. He takes one step, and then hears it, clear as if Jay was standing right next to him:

" _I couldn't save you, I'm so sorry, I'm -"._

That's it, Tim is running into the entrance of the tunnel, eyes wide, gasping breaths escaping his mouth, the camera held in front of him like a shield, the way Jay would hold it, a barrier against whatever else is out there. "Jay!" He shouts, "JAY! I can hear you!"

Tim must be somewhere towards the middle of the tunnel by now, the darkness pressing in on him, nothing ahead that he can see, but he can hear distant sobbing, and he knows who it comes from. It seems to echo around him, mingling in with the sound of his breath and his footsteps, but nothing is visible other than the walls of the tunnel looming up around him. He spins wildly, scanning the area through the viewfinder, then looks back the way he came only to see the man in the hood at the entrance, green-hued in the nightvision, peering in at him.

" _It's all my fault,_ " Jay whispers, echoing off the tunnel walls, but Tim can't see him.

"Where are you?" he shouts. "I can hear you, Jay! Where are you?"

He must be getting towards the other end of the tunnel by now, he thinks, something he realises he has never managed to do before, to walk all the way through. There is no end in sight, though, and the darkness ahead of him is as oppressive as ever. He looks at the camera screen and notices it glitching slightly: flickering, the bottom of the screen discoloring, a small burst of static.

_Oh no._

Tim stops where he is. All goes still for a second, Jay's voice abruptly cuts off and Tim holds his breath as the camera screen goes totally blank. And then it hits him, that feeling he gets just before he is about to have a seizure. He tries to take in a breath, so that he can turn and run, but it is as if something holds him in place, freezing him where he stands.

The camera noisily crackles into life, violent static moving up an and down the screen, and the roaring in his head starts up, pain shooting through him.

He falls to his knees.

That thing... that faceless thing, is _right there_ , blocking the way back, the way out. Tim can see it clearly and he tries desperately to turn away, to shield his face from the sight. "No," he sobs,"No." _Not again. I was so close._

He can hear Jay again, through the roaring in his head, distraught _. "I couldn't..."_

_No_ , says something, some voice deep inside him _. Don't. You are so close. Don't give up. Don't give in_. Tim feels a sudden burst of energy inside him and every effort goes into pulling himself forward on the cold ground, crawling towards the other end of the tunnel, on his stomach, on his knees, away from that thing, towards the sound of Jay's voice. _Don't look back._

He can feel the presence behind him, static in the camera he still clutches and in his head making it difficult to move, to think, but he drags himself along the ground, away from it, inch by inch, as time seems to slow and every nerve is concentrated on moving forward, slowly, so unbearably slowly. With the last of his strength he throws himself forward, one arm outstretched, the other still holding the camera. And he feels cold rain on the bare skin of his hand. _I made it_ , he thinks. _I made it, Jay_. And he blacks out.


	2. Lead me to Death

It is Rosswood Park, but not: the trees loom crazily out of deep shadows and the sky  - when he can see it - is the dead colour of television static. Occasionally Tim comes across odd pools of stagnant water that reflect something other than his surroundings - something dark and distant. What light there is makes him feel like he is underwater: it barely seems to touch anything, as if reaching the trees and overgrown pathways through a dirty filter. The branches themselves sway like they are caught in a gentle current, creaking ominously, and erratic bursts of cold rain fall from the cloudless sky.

He has no idea how long he has been wandering, clutching Jay's camera - which is still recording, as far as he can tell. He had woken up outside the tunnel some time ago, whether hours or days Tim doesn't know. What he does know, with a heavy feeling of dread, is that from the moment he awoke, static still ringing in his ears, Jay's voice had been absent. Was it all a trick, a hallucination, after all?

Just in case, every so often he stops and strains his ears, hoping that he'll catch a voice, a single word, _something_ , but each time he hears nothing but the sound of the staticky breeze through the branches. Maybe he isn't even here. "Speak to me, Jay", Tim pleads, to the air.

Either he is walking in circles or the woods are shifting around him - sometimes, after what seems like hours, he enters a clearing or comes across a fallen tree only to recognise it as one he passed a long time before. Still, he keeps on going, searching for Jay, ignoring his growing sense of despair. To stop would be to give up, and, however hopeless his situation seems, Tim isn't ready to give up just yet.

He only hopes that if  he does find Jay, he is able to find the way back afterwards.

He remembers an old book he read as a child, while staying in the hospital, not long after he had been left there for the first time. It was a collection of fairytales, and one story he'd liked had been that of two children - Hansel and Gretel - who were abandoned by their parents in a forest, and how they had left a trail of breadcrumbs so they could find their way back home. The story had resonated with him at the time.

Now Tim just wishes he'd thought to mark his way from the tunnel: scratched arrows into tree trunks or set up rock markers or something. Still, in a place as warped as this, there is no guarantee any marks he makes would say put.

He remembers how in the fairytale, the birds came down and ate all the breadcrumbs, and the children were totally lost. _No happy endings in that story_ , he thinks. He wouldn't know, he never got to finish it: one of the doctors had requested that the book be removed, because young Timothy had an overactive imagination as it is. _It was for the best_ , Tim tells himself, not really believing it.

Tim is sure that this is the place he was taken to before, that first time both he and Jay had gone into the tunnel. Alex had called Jay's phone, then that.. that _thing_ had appeared, and _then_.... Tim takes a deep breath. He has no memory of it: he only even knows it happened because he was wearing the chestcam at the time.

The footage he got from that place shows him stumbling across the body of the stranger Alex killed. It worries him: if he finds Jay, will he find him alive?

But no. He has some hope. Jay wasn't dead when he was taken. Dying, maybe. While the guy Alex murdered in the tunnel had had his head stoved in.

He can only hope that if Jay is here too, he has found some way to stay alive in the weeks since he was shot. It seems unlikely, but Tim knows that, despite his misfortunes, Jay is a survivor.

Tim ducks out of the way of some branches that seem to reach for him like crooked fingers, swaying in a nonexistent gust of wind.

If Jay _has_ survived, Tim wonders what weeks of being trapped in a place like this could do to someone.

*

Tim finds himself in a clearing he hasn't been in before, surrounded by tall thin trees. But what strikes him is the strange markings around him: not the by-now-familiar crossed-out circle, and not way-markers, as he himself had considered making, but jumbled letters and words.

He gets closer to one of the trees but suddenly has an inexplicable feeling of being watched. He turns around. "Jay?" he asks, but no one is there, the woods as empty as they have been since he arrived. He scouts around until he is convinced he is alone, and returns to the trees and the strange markings. Only four letters appear, in different combinations on each tree. On one, simply the word "MY" On another "I" and another two just the letters "Y" and "A". One tree reads "I AM", The one next to it "AM I".

Tim feels even more creeped out than he had been before. It reminds him of a Totheark video, the one that said "You are you, but who are you?" If Jay is here, he hopes it wasn't him who carved those letters. He leaves the clearing in a hurry.

*

Tim is finally starting to feel a sense of hopelessness. He is getting nowhere. He hasn't felt hungry, or even particularly tired since he woke up here, but even so, it would be far too easy to sink to the ground in defeat and not get up. _It's what this place wants_ , he thinks, inexplicably. There's something about the area and its distortions that weighs on him, making him perpetually fearful, perpetually uneasy. _I'm going to die here_ , he thinks. _Or worse, be trapped here alive. I'm never going to find Jay and I'm never going to find my way out again._

He leans against a tree trunk. "Where are you Jay?" he says quietly, dejectedly. He listens, but instead of hearing Jay's voice in answer, he hears something else, something he hasn't heard once so far: the sound of running water. He follows the noise to its source.

A narrow, shallow river with a slow current, its waters black and oily looking. It's too wide for him to jump it, and there's no way he's stepping foot in it. But on the other side, there is deep forest, dark and foreboding. Still, it's a part of this unnerving place, this un-Rosswood that he hasn't searched yet.

He walks alongside the river for a while, looking for a place to cross, until a movement from the other side stops him in his tracks. _Someone is_ _there_. He can't tell who it is, and he crouches behind a tree trunk, his heart hammering. After a moment, he peeks out and gets another glimpse of the person moving carefully between the trees. There is a flash of blonde hair.

Disappointment rears: it isn't Jay. Beyond that, Tim feels a nagging sense of recognition. He should know who this is. He glances over again and sees that they have stopped behind one tree, as if waiting. Despite his misgivings, he decides to risk showing himself. There is a river between them, after all. He steps out. "...Hello?"

The person freezes, then takes off running, Tim still stuck on the wrong side of the water. He soon loses sight of them. He rakes a hand through his hair in frustration: this is the first person he has seen since he got here and he just scared them off. He sighs. At least he knows he isn't alone here. Although he's not sure if that's necessarily a good thing.

There is something in the back of his mind urging him to cross the river. But how? He looks around him and notices, further upstream, a tree leaning drunkenly at an angle over the waters, its roots half exposed from the dirt. He goes up to it: it looks dead, _rotten_ in places. Still, it's worth a try. He places the camera on the ground and leans his weight against the tree experimentally, finding that it gives slightly. He pushes harder and the tree leans further out. Tim takes a breather, examining the tree. One more hard push should do it. He just needs to be careful that he doesn't fall in the river himself. He steadies himself, then leans hard against the tree. It creaks loudly in protest but after a few moments it falls across the river all at once, its roots pulling up dark soil as it goes. Tim steels himself, then he puts one foot on the trunk. It is steady enough, he thinks, testing his weight on it. He picks up the camera. Then without thinking too much in case he talks himself out of it, he pushes off, walking across the narrow trunk as quickly and lightly as he can, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. He only breathes again when he steps onto solid ground.

He is on the other side.

*

There are markings on the tree the person had been standing behind. They look newer and more frantically carved than the ones he found in that strange clearing, but they are the same letters as before. Just arranged differently:

I  
AM  
AM  
Y

"I am," he reads. "I am... Amy?" He glances around. "Amy?" he says, louder. No response. That was who he saw. He remembers her now: he saw her for a split second when watching Jay's footage. He glances around but can't see any trace of her.

"Amy?" He says again, and listens. And he picks up a voice on the breeze, not hers, not a female voice. He can barely make out the words, but he knows who it is. " _Jay_ ," he says to himself and stumbles in the direction it seems to be coming from, the voice carrying louder on the breeze.

"It's my fault..." the voice whispers, dully. "All my fault... 

*

He sees him, sitting on the forest floor, back against a tree trunk, his legs stretched out in front of him. Tim's joy soon turns to horror as he fully takes in the scene: across Jay's legs lies a corpse: a woman, petite, long brown hair and blood and gore where her face should be. By the pallor of her limbs, her arms thrown stiffly outwards, Tim can tell she has been dead for some time. Aside from that, there is no other hint of decay.

He stands at a distance, watching as Jay brushes gently brushes her hair away from her mangled face. "I'm sorry, Jessica," he says, quietly.

Tim has to turn away for a moment and compose himself. When he feels a little less shaken, he takes a breath and goes over to him, the man he's been trying to find for what seems like such a long time.

"Hey Jay," he says, weakly.

Jay slowly looks up at him. There is little recognition in his eyes.

"It's me. Tim." Tim steadfastly refuses to look at anything in front of him except Jay's face.

"Tim," Jay repeats, dully. "He got you too?" Jay looks up at him, his eyes glancing over him as if expecting to see a wound.

It is not the welcome Tim was hoping for. He shakes his head. "No, he didn't get me. I came to find you. I... I want to get you out of here."

Jay ignores him. "I found Jessica," he says.

"I can see that."

"It was a while before I found her here," Jay continues, in a voice lacking emotion.  "But it was already too late, I guess."

Tim nods. He doesn't know what to say.

"I'm surprised I'm not dead yet too," Jay continues. "Alex shot me, you know."

"I know. I found your camera after you were taken... I, I watched him do it." Tim says. He holds up the camera. “You can have it back if you want. Here..." He passes it to Jay, trying not to look at Jessica as he does so.

Jay examines the camera without much interest, but then brings the viewfinder up to his eyes and looks at Tim through it. Tim remembers all the times when Jay would point the camera at him and he would want to hit it out of Jay's hands. Now it seems like it’s in its rightful place.

Jay places the camera on the ground beside him. He makes no move to get up. Tim glances at Jay's side, where the bullet had hit. His shirt is stained with dark blood, but it doesn’t look as if he is still bleeding. Jay notices Tim's eyes on him.

"I didn't think anyone could survive being shot beyond a few hours," Jay says. "But here I am, a day later, still alive. Maybe it's my punishment," he says, with a humourless chuckle, "for everything." At that, he looks down at Jessica’s body in front of him.

Tim pauses. "Jay," he says, carefully, "You've been gone nearly a month."

Jay just stares at him, disbelieving. He then lifts up the bottom of his shirt, as if to examine the gunshot wound. Tim sees that, although there is dried blood, almost black in the low light, and torn flesh, no blood is oozing from the wound. Jay looks back at him. "You don't bleed here," he says. "You don't sleep either. You don't even need to eat. I guess it could have been a month, I don't know. Maybe time is different here."

"Okay," Tim is feeling impatient now, "well whatever. I'm here to bring you back. So get up, and we can leave."

"I thought you hated me," Jay says, inexplicably.

"What?" Tim is taken aback.

"After what I did," Jay says.

Tim grasps for words, "I don’t hate you. You… you weren't yourself at the time. You wouldn’t have done what you did if you were. I just…” Tim looks down and awkwardly plays with his hands. “I wanted to keep you safe. But I couldn’t even manage that.” He looks at Jay, nervously. “I just want you back in the real world."

Jay seems to consider what Tim says. "It doesn't matter anyway," he eventually responds. "There's no way out."

"There has to be - I got out before, remember? That time that thing took me from the tunnel. The tunnel is how I got here this time, so maybe it’s the same.”

Jay looks skeptical. "Do you remember how you got out last time?"

"I don't remember any of it," Tim admits. "So, no. But it doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

Jay nods slowly and Tim feels a surge of hope until he responds: "I'm not going back with you.” His voice is emotionless. "I deserve to be here. She's dead because of me."

Tim clenches his fists. "No," he says angrily, "She's dead because of Alex." He can tell by his expression Jay doesn't believe him, too lost in his own guilt and self-pity.

"She would never have been involved if I hadn't brought her into this," Jay says.

"You didn't know what would happen,” Tim says heatedly. “You didn't even know what Alex was capable of at the time. _Alex_ is to blame, not you."

Jay doesn’t look like he believes him. "It doesn't matter any more," he says, shaking his head. "I don't have anything to go back for, anyway. There's no one looking for me."

Tim is a bit hurt by that, but he decides not to let it show. He decides to change tack. "Would Jessica want that? If she was still alive - " he ignores Jay's wince "what would she want? Would she want you to stay in this _hellhole_ feeling sorry for yourself, or would she want you to get out and live?" Jay just stares at him. "You should do it for her. If you won't come back for your own sake, and if you won't come back for me - " Tim's voice breaks at this point but he carries on regardless, "then do it for her."

Jay says nothing, just looks at him for a while, then back down to Jessica. Then, reluctantly, a hand over his wound, he gets to his feet.

*

They are walking. There are no pathways this side of the river, but they keep to the less heavily wooded parts where possible. The wind in the trees sound like eerie inhuman whispering to Tim. Jay hasn't said a word since they left Jessica behind.

At first, Jay had insisted that if he was coming back with Tim, so was Jessica, that they needed to return her body to her parents. Tim knows he could easily have carried her -  he has seen footage of himself doing so, after all. But even so, he had pointed out to Jay that bringing her back would be bad idea: aside from her being an extra burden if they needed to get away from something fast, two guys emerging from the woods carrying the body of a dead young woman would look innocent to absolutely _nobody_. Tim had spent a lot of time dealing with the authorities when he was younger - whatever he could do not to draw their attention, the better.

Secretly, he didn't think anyone was actually looking for Jessica. He wonders if, once you are taken, you are wiped from memory. Maybe the only records that you even existed are the fleeting moments caught on film. Those are all Tim knows of Jessica, anyway.

In the end, Jay had reluctantly agreed to leave her behind. They had no means of burying her, but they had covered her body with branches and leaves. Tim had carved her name on a flat piece of rock, which they had placed in the ground beside her. Jay seemed satisfied with this. Tim had realised with sadness that neither of them knew her last name.

As they walk, Tim realises there was something he forgot to tell Jay. "Earlier on," he says, "when I was still looking for you, I thought.. I thought I saw Amy."

Jay looks at him. He doesn't seem surprised. "Was it definitely her?"

"I don't know, I never met her before. I only saw her once before for about a second, on one of your videos. But I'm pretty sure it was." He decides not to mention the tree carvings for now.

Jay says they'll have to look out for her, and bring her back if they can.

Tim agrees. "Yeah, I feel like I owe her. I wouldn't have found you if it wasn't for her."

*

They find the tree over the river. Tim takes the camera and makes his careful way over then turns to watch Jay cross. As he does, he notices movement on the riverbank behind Jay. "Amy", he says. She is standing there in full view, watching Jay. He notices that she doesn't look to be in too bad health, aside from dark purple bruises on her neck, around her throat.

Jay, already half way across the rotten trunk, hears Tim and turns around to look behind him. As he does so, there is a loud crack and park of the trunk near Tim falls away into the murky water below. Jay is still standing upright, eyes wide, as more cracks sound around him and the tree starts to split. Tim doesn't know what the unnatural water below can do, but he doesn't think it can be anything good.

"Jay, quick! Tim shouts, dropping the camera and holding out a hand. Jay takes a few more steps, nearly there, when the tree breaks in half in the middle and starts to fall. Jay throws himself forward, clawing at the side of the riverbank and Tim leans out as far as he can, grabbing Jay's hand and, with some difficulty, dragging him up and over the side.

They lie gasping for a few moments.

Tim sits up and looks across to the other bank. Amy is still there, staring, unblinking.

"Come with us," Tim shouts over. "We'll find somewhere else for you to cross."

She just looks at him and shakes her head slowly. Then she turns around and makes her way back, deeper into the forest.

Jay, brushing himself off, stands up. He watches her retreat into the trees. "I guess we tried."

*

Directionless, they walk for hours through the nightmare place. Some parts that they pass through Tim recognises, while others are completely new to him. At one point they come across the clearing with the carved letters, but Tim deliberately skirts around it, instead of walking straight through. Neither of them say much as they walk, Jay carrying the camera, Tim leading the way.

After a while, Jay speaks. "Tim...." he says, warily.

"Yeah?" Tim stops.

"Look at the camera." Jay holds the screen up so Tim can see. Lines of static are rolling up and down the screen. As Tim watches the screen, he feels it: a headache, a tightness around his lungs. He starts to cough. So does Jay.

"That thing... it's close," Tim says, between coughs. "We need to move."

With difficulty they start moving, not caring which way they are going, just trying to get away. But it doesn't seem to work. Wherever they turn, wherever they run to, the nausea and coughing gets worse. They end up in a more open area, but by that point it has got so bad they both end up on their knees, retching.

_We're not going to make it_ , Tim thinks, distraught. _We got this far_. Then he remembers. The thing, the _being_ , it appeared at the point where Tim crossed over from the real world to this strange place. He drags himself to his feet, clinging on to some low branches for support, gasping.

"Jay," he says, breathlessly. "this might be how we get back."

Jay breathes in deeply, eyes slightly bloodshot from the force of his coughing. He gradually sits upright. His wound still seems to be dry, Tim notices, thankfully.

Tim can feel the presence getting closer, the pressure building, the camera buzzing almost angrily with static interference. Everything gets darker around them. Tim grabs the camera from where Jay dropped it and, holding it up, looks through the viewfinder. The static is still there, but what surprises him is something that is occasionally visible beneath the static. He can just make it out through the distortion, squinting at the screen. It is an image of an archway, of a tunnel, he realises. _The_ tunnel.

He looks up but can't see anything in that direction in the dim light. He wonders if the camera is showing him more than he can see with his own eyes. Jay has stopped coughing, he notices. His urge to cough has also stopped.

He helps Jay up and shows him the screen. Jay's surprised expression confirms to Tim that he isn't imagining things. He takes the camera from Tim and looks through the viewfinder. "If this is right, and the tunnel is over there in the distance, then how come we can't see it ourselves?" Jay asks. "It's not _that_ dark."

"I don't know," Tim says. He looks at Jay and grins slightly. "Want to make a run for it?"

Jay doesn't hesitate. "Yeah."

"Okay, let's go." Tim grabs Jay by the arm and they run in the direction that the saw the tunnel. They are soon out of breath, weakened by their coughing fits. As they approach the area where the tunnel should be, Jay holds the camera in front of his eyes, then abruptly stops.

"It's gone," he says.

Tim looks at the screen over Jay's shoulder. No tunnel is visible up ahead of them that they can see, either through the viewfinder or with his own eyes.

Jay's solders sag. "What now?" he says.

Suddenly a bolt of pain shoots through Tim's brain. He hears Jay gasp and guesses he also felt it. He clutches his head with both hands bent over, eyes streaming, a cough bubbling in his throat. And when he looks up, he sees that that thing is in front of them. Jay is on the ground at his feet.

Tim struggling almost blindly, manages to pull Jay upright. Jay is coughing but still conscious, thankfully. "Quick", he says, "run."

Jay grips Tim's shoulder for support and they struggle away from the creature, more limping than running. Tim doesn't know why it isn't trying to stop them from getting away.

Another wave of pain hits them, and the being is in front of them again. "No," Tim breathes. " _No_ , we're so close."

He grabs Jay and they turn around again, and this time, they see the tunnel with their own eyes, a little way up ahead. It definitely hadn't been there before.

Jay gasps as he sees it too. "Come on!" Tim shouts, and both of them are sprinting, energised, toward the tunnel opening. As they run, Tim, feels the familiar aching pressure in his head once more, his lungs are on fire, he can't get enough oxygen, he's not going to make it. He stumbles over something but manages to right himself in time. They reach the tunnel entrance just as the faceless being appears again, blocking the way.

They collapse. Through the pain, Tim feels despair. _What do you want_ , Tim shouts, whether in his head or out loud he can't tell. Strangely, the cacophony in his head seems to clear for a second after he says it, and all of a sudden he is visualising, of all people, Alex Kralie. Alex holding a metal pipe. Alex alone in Rosswood, Alex in the tunnel. He doesn't know what sparked these images.

Tim looks up through tear-blurred eyes: he thinks, inexplicably, that the thing is looking directly at him. Tim doesn't know what to make of that - can it even _see_? But it seems to incline its head ever so slightly, towards him, and vanishes.

Jay groans. Without a second's thought, Tim staggers to his feet, grabs Jay's elbow and they both stumble into the tunnel.

*

"What made it leave?" Jay asks. His voice echoes back at them off the tunnel walls. It is so dark, they can't see anything. Jay holds the camera up in front of them anyway, but it picks up nothing but darkness.

"I don't know," Tim says. He doesn't mention the last few moments of his encounter with the being. Better to focus on getting through the tunnel in one piece.

They struggle onwards, no sounds except the other's breathing, no light, but the faceless thing  hasn't appeared again, for which they are thankful. Still, Tim doesn't remember the tunnel being this long. It seems endless.

Jay's breathing is getting harsher.

"You okay?" Tim asks him.

"Yeah," Jay gasps out. "Don't worry about me."

Jay is lagging behind him now, but Tim can still hear his heavy footsteps following him. _The sooner we get out the better_ , Tim thinks. _Just get out of the tunnel and into the real world and we can rest_.

And as he thinks that, he sees a pinprick of light up ahead. It gives him hope. He turns to Jay, to ask him if he can see it, but Jay is quite a bit behind him now. Tim can just about make him out from the light coming from up ahead. He notices Jay is clutching his side, hand tight over his wound.

"Jay?" Tim asks. Jay staggers forward a bit. Tim moves forward to steady him, but Jay catches himself in time.

"We're halfway through." Tim says encouragingly. "Nearly there."

Jay nods, in discomfort. Tim's eyes go to Jay's side. _Is that...?_ It's hard to make out in the dim light, but the stain on Jay's shirt, visible around his hand looks darker... wetter.

"Jay?" Tim asks uncertainly indicating Jay's wound. Jay looks down and slowly removes his hand. His palm is a dark, dark red. " _No_ ," Tim whispers horrified.

Jay looks back at him, eyes wide with fear. He drops the camera. Tim rushes forward, clamps his palm down on Jay's wound, places his other arms around Jay's shoulders. Blood is now dripping from Jay's wound.

"Don't worry, buddy." He says, shakily. "We'll get you to a hospital. We just have to get out of here." They take a few more tentative steps, Jay leaning heavily on Tim, before Jay stops, bent almost double.

"I can't..." he says, and collapses to his knees.

"No Jay, we're nearly there! Just a few more steps. Come on, get up!" Tim pleads with him. Jay breathes heavily, tries to get up, but falls back down. He lies there, coughing slightly, and blood drips from him to the tunnel floor. Tim kneels by him and presses on the wound, but soon the blood is welling up between his fingers. Jay's coughing gives way to gasping and shuddering.

Tim is panicking and tries desperately to clear his head. _He can't bleed to death, not here, not after everything_.  He doesn't know what to do. Neither of them have their phones, so even if there is signal in this place, he can't call an ambulance. Jay is dying and Tim can't do anything.

The only thing he can think of is getting Jay out of the tunnel, away from danger, back in the real world. Maybe he can be saved.

Summoning the last of his strength, Tim manages to get his arms around Jay, and with difficulty, gets to his knees and then his feet, carrying Jay awkwardly in his arms. Jay is heavier than he looks, despite being all skin and bone, but Tim barely notices, all his energy and concentration is focused on moving forward, one step at a time.

He keeps on going, putting one foot in front of another. Everything around him fades to that distant hopeful pinprick of light, which gets steadily closer until it envelops them, and suddenly they are outside, back in the real world, in daylight.

But Jay is still bleeding out.

So Tim doesn't stop. It seems like a slow eternity in which he makes his way from the tunnel, out of the woods, arms and back aching, carrying Jay, following the pathway back to civilisation. As he nears the edge of the treeline, into an open field, he sees people: a family: a couple and kids. The relief is overwhelming. The mother looks over at them and stares, open-mouthed.

"Call an ambulance!" Tim yells. The family freezes, staring in incomprehension. "He's dying!" Tim yells, voice breaking. "Call 911." The woman takes out her phone and begins to dial as she comes over to them. One of the little kids starts to cry, noisily. Tim takes a few more steps before collapsing. He lays Jay out on the ground and puts pressure on his wound again. Jay is barely breathing - he is paler than he has ever been, his lips bloodless and dark purple rings around his eyes.

As the woman makes the call, the man also comes over. "What happened?" he asks.

"He got shot. Help me stop the bleeding. He's going to die..." Tim notices the wetness on his own cheeks for the first time. His hands are covered in Jay's blood. He is sobbing openly as the man takes over. Jay's shirt is stuck to his wound with blood; the man attempts to stanch the bleeding with his own jacket.

In the background, Tim can hear the woman anxiously talking to the emergency services. "Ambulance... and police I guess? ... Rosswood Park, near the parking lot. He's been shot. I don't know.. in the side, the abdomen? There's a lot of blood."

She takes over from the man while still on the call, following instructions Tim can't hear, checking for a pulse, for breathing.

When Tim hears the sirens, he feels a small amount of relief.

The next few minutes rush by in a blur, as the EMTs arrive and take over, a man and a young woman. The man has to physically pull Tim out of the way, as he refuses to leave Jay's side, the tears still streaming down his face. He watches numbly, helplessly as they get to work. He is vaguely aware of the police arriving, and the couple who had helped them going over to talk to police officers, taking their kids with them. The man gestures towards Tim at one point, but Tim barely notices, arms wrapped round himself: he only has eyes for the scene in front of him.

Eventually, the EMTs seem to have Jay stabilised and strapped to a portable stretcher. They carry him over to the ambulance and strap him down inside, Tim following in a daze, like a lost child. He asks if he can ride with them, but as he does so, there is beeping from one of the instruments they have hooked Jay up to.

"He's going into cardiac arrest," the male EMT says, grimly.

As they use the defibrillator, Tim has to turn away. He lets out a loud sob and has to bite his fist in his distress to keep from making more noise.

He looks up to find a male police officer beside him.

"Are you able to tell me what happened, sir?" the man asks.

Tim shakes his head, unable to find the words.

"We're losing him," he hears the male EMT say behind him.

"Let me see him!" Tim says, through tears and tries to get in the ambulance, but the police officer is too quick and pulls him back.

"Let them do their job, son," he says, holding Tim back as he struggles.

"No, you don't understand," Tim says, struggling harder. He needs to see Jay, to say goodbye. He manages to break free of the officer's hold and launches himself towards the back of the ambulance just as the female EMT closes the doors, Tim on the outside.

The officer grabs at him again, pulling Tim away from the ambulance as it drives away. "Let go!" Tim sobs then twists and throws a punch at the officer holding him back. It collides with the man's shoulder. It was the wrong thing to do, Tim realises through his grief. He feels the handcuff close around one wrist, and then the other.

"Son, you are under arrest for assaulting a police officer," the man says. Tim barely hears anything else the man says to him. He is in a different world, one in which he is in the back of an ambulance with Jay, both of them fighting for Jay's life.

Instead, he is marched across the parking lot to the police car, where he is driven away, in the opposite direction to Jay.


	3. Quadrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four points of view over the course of 24 hours. The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten this story, just had a lot going on recently. I'll try to update more frequently from here on out.
> 
> This chapter is setting the scene for a POV switch-up: the rest of the story will be told from other points of view, as well as Tim's. I figured it would work better that way. 
> 
> Chapter warning for in-character prejudice towards those with mental health issues.

*****

The hooded man creeps silently through the tunnel, his head bowed, scanning the ground, following a trail of blood.

He had watched from a distance as the two men left the tunnel a short while before. He noticed what one of them was carrying -  as well as what they were not carrying. This was better than he could have hoped for.

It is daylight outside, but the further in he goes, the less he can see. He can only just make out the dark splashes, still wet. It is in the middle of the tunnel, light from both ends of only just visible to him, that he finds what he is looking for.

He picks up the camera from where it lies next to a dark, wet pool and turns back the way he came, moving faster now. Soon the authorities will be here. They will follow the breadcrumb trail of blood from the park back to this place, and he doesn't want to be around when they arrive.

He leaves the tunnel, camera cradled in his arms, and pauses a moment to take stock. In the distance he can hear the banshee-wail of sirens getting nearer, proclaiming death. He pulls off his mask and runs, going deeper into the trees. 

******

Tim sits on the hard bench in the cell, examining his palms, Jay’s blood dried on them, brown-red. It has been several hours since he spoke to anyone. Every so often an officer will come by to check on him. He doesn't know what they expect him to do: his belt and shoelaces were confiscated before they put him in here and he has nothing to do but stare at the bare walls or his bloodstained hands.

There is a toilet in the cell, but no basin. He rubs his palms together and tiny slivers of dried blood peel off and fall to the floor. Blood is on his shirt, his jeans, his hands, possibly his face and hair for all he knows.

He feels numb, distant from what happened earlier. He knows that Jay is almost certainly dead. He tried asking an officer the first time one came to check on him, but he refused to answer. Tim can only assume the worst.

Further down the corridor, in another cell, he can hear someone drunkenly mumbling to himself.

He guesses he will be spending the night here until they decide what to do with him. At least he has the cell to himself.

He looks up: the drunk man has quietened now and Tim can hear faint voices in his place, echoing down the corridor of this small building. One is female: the officer who offered him the phone call earlier (he had declined, having no one he could call.) The other voice is male and he doesn't think he recognises it. He can just make out what the man is saying.

“...years ago, as a kid. Number of times we got called out to search for him there...”

“So he’s well-known to the station?” That was the female voice.

“Well, actually, no, he seems to have…”

A door slams, and Tim can hear nothing for a while. He gets up and paces the cell for what feels like the twentieth time since they put him here. _He's dead he's dead he's dead_ , a voice in his head says. _Give up. Give up now._

A short while later and Tim is still pacing when he hears a door unlock. Footsteps echo down the corridor and then two people appear outside his cell. Tim freezes mid-pace. It is the young female police officer and a man who seems familiar, but Tim can't place him. The female officer smiles in an encouraging way.

"Timothy, This is Inspector Buford. He will be the officer in charge of your case while you are with us."

_My case?_

Inspector Buford moved closer to the bars of his cell. He is older, in his later fifties, maybe. He is looking at Tim with a mixture of interest and something akin to amusement.

"Hello Timothy," he says, a small smile on his lips. "You probably don't remember me at all. Last time I saw you, I had less lines on my face and less gray in my hair. But I remember you." He moves closer, looks Tim up and down.  You were littler then. The number of times I was the one on duty on nights and we'd get a call out from your poor distraught mother saying you'd gone and run again. I pulled you out of Rosswood Park myself more than once."

He looks like he is waiting for Tim to say something. Tim stays silent.

The smile leaves the man's face. "Don't you worry, son. I'll be getting to the bottom of what happened in that park between you and that young man. Just you see."

He nods at Tim, then walks back up the corridor. The female officer smiles nervously at Tim and follows.

Panic suddenly flares in Tim. He runs to the bars. "Wait!" he shouts. "Just tell me. Is he alive?"

Buford pauses. When he turns back to Tim, that small smile has returned to his lips. "I can't tell you that, son," he says, and walks away.

As they walk away, Tim just catches the woman say in a low tone: "Do you think we'll be able to find a place for him?" He doesn't catch Buford's response.

Tim doesn't know what any of that means. He's not even sure he cares. _If Jay is dead..._

He returns to the bench in the cell and continues picking Jay's blood from his hands.

*******

Nurse Garcia is on night shifts this week, and is finishing up her rounds of the ward. All okay. Just one more patient to check up on before she can leave. She greets the police office who sits outside the room's closed door and he nods at her in response, looking half asleep.

She enters the private room, and in the dim light can just make out the young man asleep in the bed, hooked up to monitors and IVs. Usually he would be in the ward now, but due to him being the victim of an attempted homicide, he was being kept in his own room, under watch. She checks the heart monitor. He is pale, almost bloodless, despite the transfusion he had had several hours earlier. At the foot of his bed, his medical records display the name 'John Doe'.

The young man should be dead, she knows, if not from blood loss, then from organ failure. And yet here he is. The EMTs very nearly lost him, but apparently there was still enough fight left in him to hang on to life.

As long as he continues to fight. There are so many variables at stake. Their job here in the hospital is to help him physically heal, but they can't do that if he gives up. On top of that, someone out there wanted him dead, of that they can be sure. Even if he pulls through, he'll have that to contend with.

She had heard that no one had been charged for shooting him yet, although according to the officer outside, the man who was with him had known mental health problems, and had been known to the local police force for several years. All of which are pretty conclusive, she thinks. The suspect is in police custody, which would suggest that their patient was now safe, but until the police force can decipher what exactly happened, the young man - the John Doe - remains under special police protection.

The suspect had told the police that the victim's name was Jay - or maybe that was just his first initial. 'Jay' possessed no ID at the time he was brought in - no wallet, no driver's license. Officially he was John Doe until they could identify him.

The young man murmured in his sleep, eyelids fluttering slightly. "You're safe now, Jay." She whispers. " You're going to be okay."

********

_ROSSWOOD, AL.- Police officers were called to the scene of an apparent shooting at Rosswood Park Monday afternoon, where a man was discovered critically injured._

_Sources indicate that local resident Timothy Wright has been taken into custody for questioning in relation to the incident. Officers reported that no arrests have been made at this time._

_The victim, whose identity officers have not been able to verify, is recovering in the hospital and is now reported to be in a stable condition._

_If you have any additional information pertaining to the case, please contact Rosswood Police._

 

Alex clutches the newspaper in his hands, knuckles white, reading and re-reading short article. He'd picked up the newspaper off someone's drive that morning when he'd spotted the headline on the front page: "Shooting incident in Rosswood Park, man injured". He had taken it to a bench by the side of the road and found he couldn't put it down.

An older woman carrying a shopping bag stops and sits down next to him on the bench, breathing heavily. Alex looks over at her, unsmiling. "Just catching my breath," she says, wheezing.

She glances over at the story Alex is staring at. Alex feels a wave of resentment at her prying, which only grows as she starts to speak. "It's been years since we've had anything like this in Rosswood. Such a terrible thing to happen. I knew his mother, you know. The Wright boy's mother, I mean." She tuts and shakes her head

Alex doesn't respond to this, but she continues anyway. "She was my neighbor. She had to put the boy in some kind of institution. He was.." here she lowered her voice "mentally disturbed." Not the mother's fault, I think, although there was no father around... I only met him the boy a couple of times. I always thought it was a bad idea to let him out of the place. Once you're bad, you stay bad, you know?"

Alex doesn't know. He says nothing, and the woman looks a little disappointed at his lack of response. "Anyway, my granddaughter is with the police and there are rumors of him being transferred to a secure facility. Hopefully they'll keep him there this time. We'll sleep safer in our beds if they do."

Alex looks away. The woman sighs, shakes her head again, and after a moment, gets unsteadily to her feet and walks away.


	4. He is a Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. Blame life and writer's block for getting in the way. This fic will be updating more frequently from now onwards, as I have a large part of the next couple of chapters already written.
> 
> Trigger warnings/content warnings for this chapter: Negative attitudes towards mental health issues, underlying homophobia, police incompetence, physical restraint of a character and lack of medical consent.

Tim’s third morning in the cramped jail cell arrives too soon. The sound of the cell door being unlocked is almost painful after a night of near-silence, and before he can fully register what is happening, he is in handcuffs again and being walked down the corridor to the interview room.

This is his third interview since he was arrested.

The procedure is becoming almost familiar to him as he is pushed into the harshly-lit room and deposited, blinking, into the chair across the table from the two officers who are on his case – in both senses of the phrase – Detectives Buford and Russo. Buford, gray, with his stubble and sly grin, and the younger Russo, kinder, with her hair already coming loose from her less-than tidy bun.

“Hello again Timothy,” Buford says, attempting to smile. Tim says nothing and avoids eye contact, staring down at his cuffed hands. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Buford tighten his grasp on the files in front of him. “Timothy, you haven’t been particularly cooperative in the other interviews. I am hoping things will be different this morning.”

Tim doesn’t answer.

Soon enough they are going through the standard routine that has begun all his previous interviews so far. Detective Russo starts the tape recorder and reads off some standard information that Tim doesn’t pay attention to. It’s not like it matters.

Once she is done, Buford begins. “So Timothy, let’s go over the events of the day of the shooting. You woke up that morning, and what did you do?”

Tim stares down at his hands, fingers twitching nervously. Buford sighs.

Detective Russo glances at Buford and steps in. “Timothy, we still need to establish why you were at Rosswood Park that day. And how your friend came to be there.”

Tim glances up and considers what to say before opening his mouth. Buford leans forward in anticipation.

“I told you before, the first time you asked,” he says hoarsely.

It was true to an extent: in their first interview Tim had told them that he and Jay had decided to go to the park for the day, when a man they knew had unexpectedly emerged and shot Jay. Tim knew that the officers didn’t believe him and Buford got pretty angry when Tim refused to reveal the identity of the gunman.

Buford had even implied that if Tim was as good a friend to Jay as he said he was, he would cooperate. That had stung, but Tim couldn’t see any way in which naming Alex Kralie could turn out well. If Alex got word of what happened in that tunnel, he'd be out to find Jay and finish the job.

“Thing is, Timothy,” Buford is saying, “what you told us doesn’t match up. We interviewed everyone in the area at the time, and no one recalls seeing either of you enter the park that day. Or the mystery shooter." Buford leans forward and looked Tim fully in the eye. "Now tell us the truth, what really happened?”

Tim is silent for a few moments. Finally, tiredly, he responds: “It doesn’t matter any more.” He looks down and thinks of Jay's blood drying on his hands, of Amy disappearing into the gloom, of Jessica's makeshift grave.

There is a pause before Buford speaks again. “Timothy, you remember what you asked me on the first day we talked?” Tim shakes his head. “You asked me whether your friend had survived. I couldn’t tell you.” Tim looks up, scarcely daring to hope.  Buford continues, “If it will encourage you to cooperate, then I want you to know that he is alive. He is still unresponsive, but the doctors expect that he will live.”

Tim feels shell-shocked, scarcely taking in what the officer says next:  “Now that I’ve let you in on that little secret, maybe you could repay the favor and answer our questions.

***

Detective Buford sits back in his chair and observes the Wright boy closely. He had hoped that the news of the victim’s survival might rattle him enough that he would crack and admit everything. Strangely, he looks surprised more than anything – and is that expression on his face relief? No, surely he is imagining it. The kid is guilty as sin, that much is obvious.

The circumstantial evidence against Wright is overwhelming: he was the only other person in the woods that day. There were no sightings of the alleged gunman he told them about. He even has a history of mental illness, including violence and hallucinations. Last of all, by his own admission, Wright and the victim were allegedly friends, although Buford wonders if there was more to their relationship than that. Whatever, more often than not in homicide cases it turns out that the victim knew their attacker. It all adds up.

All Buford needs is for the kid to implicate himself. A confession would be grand, but he would settle for a slip-up if he had to. So far, Wright has tread carefully, refusing to budge, even when nudged with a large among of force – metaphorical force, obviously.

Buford hopes to unsettle Wright further in the interview. The more he can draw him out of his carefully-created comfort zone of monosyllabic answers, the more likely he is to slip up and incriminate himself. But if he doesn’t manage that, Buford will have to settle for his back-up plan.

He doesn’t particularly want to implement it, but if he has to, he will. Unfortunately Buford’s colleague decided not to press charges against Wright for hitting him at the crime scene. So now they no longer have an excuse to continue holding Wright at the station. If they can’t find the evidence to charge him for attempted homicide soon, they will have to let the kid walk free, and lord knows as soon as they do, Wright would skip state before they can blink.

The kid fixes his surly gaze on him, and Buford feels his blood boil. _I know you did it, you bastard, quit playing games,_ he thinks _._

Out loud all he says is “So Timothy, with that in mind, let’s start from the top again, shall we?”

*

Buford is growing increasingly impatient with Wright’s diversion tactics, and in particular his insistence that there is still a killer out there, someone Wright seems to think the police can’t deal with. Buford is sure the kid doesn't really believe his own stories and it annoys him that he sticks to them so insistently.

“If the gunman is still out there, why won’t you tell us who he is, so we can apprehend him?”

“Because…” Wright sucks in a deep breath. “Because he thinks Jay is dead. And if he finds out he isn’t, he’ll go after him again.” He sounds like he honestly believes what he is saying.

Buford glances at Russo, who looks surprised at Wright's reasoning. Russo clears her throat. Buford hopes she isn’t planning to humor the young man by going along with his story too. “Tim, if we apprehend the gunman, I can assure you that your friend will be safe.”

The kid doesn’t look convinced.

“Does the man you are talking about live in this area?” she asks.

He nods.

Russo continues, “In that case, you need to tell us who he is right this instant. Because this story has been in all the local newspapers. Everyone who reads the papers or watches the news round here will know that your friend – that Jay survived the shooting.” Buford isn't surprised that she didn’t mention that Wright's own name had been leaked to the papers shortly after he was apprehended. He isn’t sure how the kid would take that, but he imagines it wouldn’t go down well.

“Did… did they identify Jay? Like, by name?” Wright looks almost frantic.

“We don’t know his surname, but yes, the papers have reported that his name is allegedly Jay. In all honesty, they are eating up this story, Tim. Jay is this town’s biggest mystery, because no one knows who he is or where he came from.”

Wright puts his head in his hands. “That would be enough,” he murmurs. “He’ll know by now.” After a few moments, he looks back up at them both, looking surprisingly focused, as if a decision has been made for him and now all he can do is follow through with it.

“I thought I could keep him safe. I didn’t even care what happened to me. But everything I’ve tried so far has failed. So I’m going to tell you what I can.”

Buford studies the young man closely. Whatever is going to come next will be interesting for sure. “Go ahead son,” he says softly.

*

The two detectives listened as Wright recounted his story to them, sometimes calmly and coherently, at other times, more brokenly and piecemeal. Apparently a guy the two of them had known since college had been stalking them for several years. He finally caught up with them and shot Jay. Admittedly, this part of the story could have a grain of truth in it, Buford thought to himself, if not for the overwhelming evidence against Wright’s reliability. It could be true, and if the young man didn’t seem so hesitant to answer their questions, and if his more detailed answers didn’t sound so unconvincing, Buford would have found himself believing him. As it is, he sat there and listened in silence, picking up on every inconsistency and every instance where details seemed to have been purposefully left out.

Once Wright has talked himself out, Buford decides to let things settle a bit before asking the one question he is convinced Wright won’t be able to answer: “This former friend of yours, the one who has been stalking you both on and off for years… Does he have a name?”

Wright looks away. After a moment he looks back with a new expression of determination on his face. He says two words: “Alex Kralie”.

  


*****

 

Detective Buford shows the young man to his seat and sits across from him, Russo taking the seat next to him as always. Before starting the tape recorder, he studies the young man. He is about the same age as the Wright boy, but a much more welcome sight after having spent the morning cross examining the surly young man. Alexander Kralie is everything the Wright boy isn’t: fair hair, glasses, clean-shaven, healthy tan. And a welcome polite demeanour, if his response to being called in for questioning on such short notice was any indication. Personally, Buford wouldn’t have been so willing to come into a police station to be grilled for an hour on a crime he clearly had nothing to do with, but Kralie seems like an all round helpful and pleasant young man, so unlike the guy who named him as a suspect. 

“Thank you for coming in to talk to us, Mr. Kralie. You understand that this is more of a formality than anything else. We wouldn’t usually, but under the circumstances…” Buford trails off.

“It isn’t a problem, officer. I’m happy to help if I can. I was really shocked when I heard what happened.”

“Okay, so Mr. Kralie-“

“Alex, please call me Alex.”

“Okay, Alex, we will be starting the interview momentarily. I just wanted to confirm you are aware you can have a lawyer attend on any questioning, including today’s interview.”

“Understood, Officer, but I don’t think it will be necessary.”.

“Okay, then we’ll begin.” Buford starts the tape rolling.

They went over the usual formalities, confirming name, place of residence, where he was on the day of the event and so on. Everything he said checked out – he even had an alibi in his boss who could confirm that Alex Kralie was working for him at the time that the shooting in Rosswood Park took place. All as Buford had suspected. The Wright boy was clearly a fantasist.

It was when they moved on to whether Alex knew the victim, that things became interesting.

“Alex, you may be aware, but despite our best efforts, we have not been able to identify the victim of the Rosswood Park shooting. We have been given a first name, but we have not been able to verify it.” Buford removes a photograph from the file in front of him.

Russo speaks into the tape recorder. “Detective Buford shows the interviewee photograph Four A.”

Buford pushes the photo across the table to Alex who picks it up, removes his glasses and studies it, his eyes widening.

The photograph is a close up of the injured young man lying in a hospital bed. Only his face and shoulders are visible.

“Can you identify this man? Buford asks.

Alex nods slowly. “We took some of the same classes at college. His name is Jay. Jay… something. It might have began with the letter M. Manning? Merrick? Something like that.”

“You can’t recall his surname?”

Alex shakes his head. “Sorry, no. We weren’t friends or anything and we didn’t talk much. I think he was a bit of a loner, actually.”

Buford is intrigued. He hadn’t expected Alex would have known the kid at all. “I am sure you must have realised from this picture, but this Jay was the young man who was shot at Rosswood Park.”

Alex nods “I guessed that. It’s really sad. I didn’t really know him at college, but he seemed like a decent guy. I hope he pulls through.”

“What else do you remember about him from those days?” Buford asks.

“Not much, to be honest. I think he was a film major, like me. Actually, I think we ended up working on the same film project at one point. This was like eight years ago though, so it’s all a bit hazy.”

“What do you remember about the project you worked on?”

“Honestly? Not a lot. We had to put together a student film, but we didn’t get very far before we abandoned it.”

“How come it was abandoned?”

“Oh you know, the usual: people not turning up, actors being unreliable. It was all pretty disorganised. It was probably for the best: I was told the script wasn’t the greatest.” Alex laughs slightly embarrassed, as if fondly remembering those days. “Anyway, shortly after that I transferred to the film school at Benedict Hall, you know in Rosswood College? So it wasn’t a huge loss.”

“Why did you transfer?”

“I just preferred the film school here. It seemed more professional.”

“Thank you Alex. Now, going back to your time at college with Jay. Do you remember anything at all about him? Did he ever get mixed up in anything? Did he seem like a bad kid?”

“I don’t really remember anything about him. He was the script supervisor for the student film, but I don’t remember him doing a lot of work to be honest. He wasn’t around much. Maybe he skipped classes occasionally, I don’t know. He was… unremarkable.”

Buford opens the file again and removes a different photo, while Russo speaks into the recorder, saying that they are showing the interviewee photograph Two A.

“Do you recognise this man?” Buford asks.

“Yes… that’s Tim Wright.”

“And how do you know him?”

“He was also at my college too. I mean, before I moved here. He worked on the same student film project. It’s been a while now, but I think he was one of the actors.”

“And what do you remember about Timothy?”

“Well…” Buford notices that Alex looks uncomfortable. “He had some issues. I didn’t know _what_ exactly, but there were rumours that he’d been in, like an asylum or something as a kid? I never found out what the truth was. I remember he was hard to work with, kind of rude and argumentative. I think he only ended up working on the project because his friend Brian was in it. I don’t think he was a particularly good actor or anything.”

“Are you still in contact with this Brian?”

“No, we lost touch. I think he moved out of state.”

“And how did you get on with Timothy Wright during your time at college together?”

“To be honest, I didn’t really even know he existed until Brian signed him up for the film project. I don’t think we were in any of the same classes. All I really remember is him being difficult to work with during filming, and the rumours going round about him. After the project got cancelled, I never heard from him.”

“Okay, thank you Alex. You’ve been very helpful. Just a few more questions to go.” Buford closes the file in front of him, and clasps his hands together. Alex looks across at him and Russo, polite and open, willing to help. “Do you remember any interactions between Timothy Wright and Jay during your time at college? Were they friends? Did they work together or take classes together?”

Alex stares back at Buford for a second. He looks like he was searching deep memory for something. “You know,” Alex says, “Until you said that, I had totally forgotten. I don’t remember them being friends or anything during the project, although they often ended up on the same shoots.” Alex sighs. “But I heard a rumour a year or so ago that they were travelling around together in this area.” He frowns down at the table.

“Who did you hear this from?”

“Brian. Before he moved away. He was friends with Tim you see. I think he thought he was looking out for him.”

“Did Brian say anything else about what they were doing?”

“Well, it was a while ago, but I think he said they were both unemployed and living out of their cars?” Buford can tell Alex wants to say something else, although the young man looks a little hesitant.

“Go on,” Buford says encouragingly.

“Okay, well he didn’t say it outright, but I got the impression he thought maybe they were, like together, like in a relationship? He didn’t seem sure, though.”

Buford had suspected something along those lines, if he was honest with himself. “What were you thoughts at the time?”

“I was… kinda surprised. I guess I didn’t think Tim would amount to much with all his issues, but I was surprised he had dragged Jay into his lifestyle. Jay always seemed like the quiet type, you know? But anyway, it was only a second hand rumour, so I don’t know how true it all was.”

Buford suspects that it was all true. The two young men had apparently been homeless but travelling together for a while. There had to be something holding them together. He half-expected drugs or something to be involved, but this made more sense. In any case, he knows the statistics. “Intimate Partner Homicide” - or in this case, attempted homicide - is not exactly an uncommon conclusion in murder investigations. He makes a mental note to follow up on this line of inquiry later. He looks back at Alex, who is watching him expectantly. “One last question,” Buford says, “who is Amy?”

Alex blinks. “Amy?” he said after a few moments. “I don’t know. I don’t know anyone called Amy.”

Buford nods, knowingly. Another one of Wright’s imaginings. He had given a number of names to them after Alex’s, claiming they were Alex’s victims, and still missing. None of the names had brought up anything in any police records. Still, he had to follow it up, especially as Wright was so insistent on them asking Alex about Amy when they brought him in.

“We were given information that you were in a relationship with a young woman called Amy who was at college with you in Rosswood. We were told she disappeared some time in 2010.”

Alex shakes his head. “Whoever told you that must be getting me confused with somebody else. I’ve never known anyone called Amy, and I don’t remember any girls from my college being reported missing. You can check the records if you like.”

“Oh we have. Not to worry son, this was just one line of enquiry we needed to follow up. Rest assured that we thought this might be the case.”

Alex nods, understanding, as Buford continues. “This concludes the interview with Alexander Kralie.” Russo reads off the date and time and turns off the recorder.

All three of them stand up, and Alex shakes both their hands.

“Thank you for coming in Alex,” Buford says. “We have what we need now. This kind of case is very unusual for us to be dealing with. In fact, this incident has been the biggest excitement seen in this small town in years.”

“No problem at all, Officer. I’m just glad I could help.” They leave the interview room and walk Alex down the corridor to the front desk.

As they walk, Alex turns to Buford. “Actually, Officer I have a question. I know I didn’t really know the guy, but we did work together in college for a short time. I was wondering if you could tell me which hospital Jay is in, so I can visit? I can’t imagine he has many visitors…”

Buford shakes his head. “Sorry son, in any other circumstance I would tell you, but unfortunately until this criminal investigation is complete, the young man isn't allowed any visitors. Even though we have a clear idea of the perpetrator, we have to assume for now that whoever wanted to kill him is still out there.”

“Okay, understood. Would you be able to tell me which hospital it is though? Maybe I could send him something? A card, or whatever.

“Your heart’s the right place, son, but unfortunately that is also classified information.”

They were at the front desk now, signing Alex out. Once they had done so, Alex turns to Buford and Russo. “Don’t worry, I totally understand why you have to keep the information confidential. I hope he recovers – I imagine a gunshot wound to the stomach is pretty serious.”

Buford agrees. “We’re hoping he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Good luck with the investigation, officers.” Alex says, before walking out the front doors.

As they walk together back to their desks, Buford sighs. “That interview was certainly an improvement on this morning’s.”

“Yeah,” Russo agrees. “It seemed pretty definitive.”

“I just wish everyone we haul into the station could be that well-mannered.”

Russo agrees “Yeah, he was definitely well-mannered... I just can’t shake the feeling we’re missing something.”

Buford stares at her. “Missing something about Kralie? Seriously? He’s about as innocent as you can get. I felt bad for even having to bring the kid in in the first place.”

“I don’t know,” Russo says. “Something doesn’t seem right.”

Buford shakes his head but says no more on the subject. Russo is still a rookie in his eyes. She’ll learn soon enough that you can’t judge suspects based on something as simple as a  “feeling”.

Buford turns and heads back to the cells. With any luck, his back up plan is being implemented right now with their star suspect.

***

Tim sits in his cell, staring into space, trying to keep his mind as calm and unmoved as possible. Every so often, the relief that Jay survived will hit him, only to be tempered by the realisation that Alex is out there, and fully aware of it too by now.

At the end of his interview, Buford had let him know that they would be bringing Alex in for questioning. As much as Tim wanted to keep Alex as far from himself as possible, he still harbors the faint hope that, despite all their doubts, the officers will see Alex for who he really is, and at least detain him. “Just keep him away from Jay, that’s all I ask”, Tim had said.

Tim can feel the start of a headache coming on. Reflexively, he reaches for his medicine, only to remember, yet again, that it was stolen from him. It has been weeks since he had his medicine bottle to hand and yet old habits die hard. In the past, simply knowing that his pills were there was enough to relieve his anxiety, even if he didn’t end up taking them. And then of course, more recently, he’d been taking more than his prescription advised. These days, he was really starting to feel the withdrawal: his headaches and his coughing fits are getting worse. Going cold turkey, even unwillingly, is taking its toll.

He is massaging his temples when his cell door is unlocked for the second time that day. The police officer who had led him out earlier ushers in two guys, one of whom wears a white medical jacket. Tim sits bolt upright and has a sudden urge to back away. He has always had this reaction to doctors. Something about being confined against your will by them as a child will do that.

The police officer passes over a light chair. The older looking doctor sits and places his black medical bag by his feet. He takes out a clipboard and pen. The younger looking one, who Tim takes to be a nurse, remains standing, hands clasped behind his back.

The doctor speaks.

“Timothy, My name is Doctor Andreas and this is Nurse Roberts. We are here to do a short health assessment.”

Tim puts his face in his hands. “Whatever you say”, he says muffled.

The doctor pauses and Tim imagines he shares a look with the nurse before continuing. “You sound like you don’t believe me, Timothy.”

Tim looks up at that. “You don’t have to pretend. I know why you’re here. I’m not stupid.” He coughs against his sleeve as he finishes talking.

“Why do you think we are here?” Doctor Andreas asks calmly.

Tim shakes his head, just as he hears footsteps coming down the corridor until they are outside his cell. They stop. He looks up into the face of Buford looking down at him from the other side of the barred door.

All of a sudden Tim understands that Buford has spoken to Alex, and that he is not convinced of Alex’s guilt. The barely-suppressed smile is all Tim needs to see. He jumps out of his seat, and the doctor does the same, giving Tim a wary look. Tim walks up to the door.

“Sorry for interrupting, doctor,” Buford says. “I just wanted to check that all was going to plan –“

He is interrupted by Tim speaking over him “You brought him in and you let him go, didn’t you?”

Buford looked momentarily taken aback. “That isn’t your concern-”

“You don’t understand”, Tim interrupts again. “He knows for sure now. He’ll hunt Jay down, and he’ll kill him again.”

“Timothy,” the doctor reaches out for Tim’s arm, but Tim knocks it away.

“You need to sit down,” the nurse says, and moves towards Tim. Tim merely ignores them both, so angry and so desperate to get the message across.

“You have to stop him.”

Buford ignores the outburst “Timothy, you need to follow the doctor’s orders.”

“Did you ask him about Amy? Please tell me you asked him about Amy. He never cared about Jay, but Amy..” The nurse grips Tim’s shoulders and makes to drag him away from the door, but Tim in his rage pushes him away. “Leave me alone,” he shouts, panic at the image of Alex heading out of the station and straight to Jay’s hospital clouding his judgement. “You don’t get it, you don’t understand!”

By now Tim is hammering on the door. He almost falls forward as it is suddenly unbolted, but instead he is suddenly pushed back inside by Buford and another cop who push him to the floor and restrain him. Tim pushes back against them, struggling. “Get off!”

As the his headache materialises making him wince, he manages to turn his head to see the doctor kneeling beside him, removing a syringe from his medical bag.

“No,” Tim says, “don’t!” but it’s too late. He feels the cold numbness of the sedative spread through him. The last thing he hears before he blacks out is Buford’s voice.

“I do understand, boy. I understand perfectly.”


	5. Surveillance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates, guys. It seems these days, life, health and the universe are all conspiring against me. With this chapter, we're about halfway there now. I can't give an exact prediction of when the next chapter will be up, but expect the next update sooner rather than later.

_"No Jay, we're nearly there! Just a few more steps. Come on, get up!"_

The recorded voice echoes from the camera into the surrounding shack, sounding tinny and distorted. Those are the last words on the footage before it becomes a soundtrack of coughing and choking and then silence. The hooded man watches a few moments more, enough to just make out the silhouette of the two figures as they move away from the dropped camera and towards the light, before he presses stop. He sits back, quiet and still, thinking. He is glad he managed to fix the camera, to get the footage to work: it has confirmed what he suspected about the Other Place. Although it has also raised more questions, ones he doesn't have the answers for. Yet. 

After several minutes, he shakes his head as if to clear it, and gets up. He hides the camera in a small hole in the dusty floor, covering it with a broken piece of clapboard lying nearby. Grabbing the knife and the flashlight from their respective hiding places, he puts the ski mask back on, pulls his hood up, and heads outside.

It is getting dark, but he needs to know _now_.

He arrives at the tunnel to find it still cordoned off with crime-scene tape, some of it now torn and fluttering slightly in the breeze. Probably ripped by trespassers, wanting to see where the mystery guy got shot. The hooded man wonders if they noticed anything unusual about the tunnel - other than the bloodstains that line it, of course. 

The police had apparently tracked the trail of blood back its source here, and concluded that this is where the shot was fired. At least, that's what the hooded man had picked up, not being averse to spying on the officers as they snooped around.

A mess of muddy footprints surround the tunnel entrance - it had rained again the night before. He glances around, but no one is in sight. He moves towards it, listening, but unlike Tim before him, he can't hear anything emanating from the tunnel. No voices, no sounds. He edges just inside the entrance and listens again. Nothing - but wait? Something faint, like someone breathing.

He can't see, so he reaches for the flashlight in his pocket, but before he has a chance to take it out, an instinctual sense of overwhelming danger hits him, and then suddenly he is hearing quick footsteps - whoever is in there is running straight at him - and before he can turn, before he can _run_ , someone slams into him. He falls to the floor with the person on top of him, but uses their momentum to fling them off him and to the side. Moving quickly, he scrambles to his feet and takes out his knife, turning to face his attacker, just in time to watch Alex Kralie hurriedly getting to his feet and reaching for his pocket. Knowing he only has moments before the gun is out, the hooded man rushes forward, barrelling into Alex and tackling him to the ground this time.

In the scuffle, he manages to get the gun from Alex's pocket, but Alex is surprisingly strong and nearly pulls it back from his grasp. The hooded man gains the upper hand, wrenching it away and in one swift movement he flings it several yards out into the darkness, where it disappears into the undergrowth. Alex stops struggling for a moment or two, and in that time their gasps for breath seem loud in the stillness. Then, the sense of danger that that the hooded man had felt before returns. He knows what this means, his instincts usually being right, and as he glances around he feels the tension in the air, and pressure in his head – the telltale signs that something bad is about to materialise. Before he even realises what he is doing, he has let go of Alex, jumped to his feet and is running back into the woods and away from the man and the tunnel.

*

The hooded man crouches lower in the undergrowth, hoping the combination of darkness and density of trees will keep him hidden. He had ducked for cover the moment the gunshot had rung out through the woods behind him. But Alex had been aiming blindly, likely trying to scare him more than anything. 

He hears Alex's shouting clearly through the trees, anger evident in his tone: “Come out. I don't want to hurt you, I just want answers."

The hooded man stays where he is. The sense that Alex’s follower is around has faded, but even so, as long as Alex himself is nearby with a gun in his hand, the danger remains.

It is a struggle to keep still in this parody of hide and seek, but he manages it until he feels a tickle in his throat and a cough start to bubble up from his chest. He clamps his gloved hand across his mouth, and with the other hand, searches for the bottle of pills in his jeans pocket. He pulls it out, the cough still threatening to escape, removes his hand and slowly unscrews the lid.

He swallows two, dry, and when he goes to put them back in his pocket he realises his flashlight is missing. He must have lost it during the fight with Alex.

It is then that he notices a weak beam of light sweep across the area.

Slowly, he raises himself up to peer over the branches. He can just about spot movement in the half-light - Alex's indistinct figure, as he appears to methodically search the area, the beam of the flashlight swerving from side to side. He is still far enough away that he could make a break for it, he thinks. If Alex tried to shoot him he would almost certainly miss with the distance and trees between them. But the movement would draw Alex's attention, and probably lead to a chase that he isn't entirely sure he could win in his current state. No, better to wait him out. He can't search all night.

He watches the dark figure before ducking down suddenly as Alex yells again, almost as if he knows what he is thinking: "You can't hide out here all night! Give up, I'll find you anyway."

The hooded man stays perfectly still, although his legs are beginning to cramp. The flashlight swings around and then abruptly goes out. He can hear distant movement, but it is hard to place from which direction the noises are coming from now. He shudders when they get louder: Alex is getting closer.

*

The Hooded man holds his breath, crouching lower as he attempts to formulate a plan, but it is not enough. Suddenly a beam of light is on him, temporarily rendering him near-blind, as his eyes adjust from the darkness, and a click of a safety catch coming off lets him know that it’s not just the flashlight that is aimed at him.

“Found you,” says Alex, simply.

He freezes.

Alex walks over, the gun trained directly at his head. The hooded man flinches away, leaning back as Alex looms over him and kicks him once, hard, in the ribs. The hooded man groans in pain. Alex leans forwards rummaging in his pocket and removing his knife,  before shouting in his face. "How did he come back?"

The hooded man says nothing, and Alex kicks him again.

"Tell me!"

The hooded man shakes his head.

"You have to know what happened. You helped him didn't you?"

No response, and so another kick.

"Tell me what hospital he is in and I'll let you go."

At that, without warning, without even really thinking of the consequences, the hooded man lunges upwards, catching Alex off-balance, he swipes Alex's leg's out from beneath him, so he falls, the gun going off mere inches from his head, temporarily deafening them both. Alex drops it in shock, and in that moment, the hooded man manages to shove Alex down and grab his knife from where it had fallen. He holds his knife to Alex's throat. It’s not quite a gun, but he has always been more comfortable with knives anyway.

"You know you can't touch me," Alex croaks out.

To make his point, the hooded man presses slightly harder with the blade and watches a tiny bead of blood well up underneath it. Alex grimaces.

Last time the hooded man threatened Alex, he paid the price. The memory of it is enough to make him withdraw some of the pressure, and slowly move away, until he is standing upright. Alex sits up, never taking his eyes from the hooded man's face. He lifts a hand to his neck and stares at the blood on his fingertips. The hooded man takes another step back, but lights are beginning to flash behind his eyes, and he can feel the familiar presence getting nearer. He turns and runs for the second time that night, but this time Alex doesn’t even attempt to follow.

Behind him, he hears Alex shouting to his retreating figure, sounding almost deranged: "You're only delaying it, you can't save him! I'll search every hospital in the state if I have to. You don’t understand, he can't come back, he can’t!

***

Jay wakes up slowly to the sound of beeping monitors, and the bustle of the doctors and the nurses as they check on him.

In his dazed and half-awake state, weaving in and out of consciousness, he hears fragments of conversations. Technical stuff, progress reports, hushed voices. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got here and his eyelids feel too heavy to open. Everyone seems careful but calm around him, so he assumes he isn’t dying. But didn’t he get shot? An image of Alex pointing a gun at him comes to mind and involuntarily, he shudders.

He is more awake the first time a nurse unwraps the gauze to check on his wound, and he notices when she gasps. She touches his skin, gingerly, carefully and hurries out of the room, returning moments later with another nurse who also examines and prods at him, before turning to her colleague. "How...?" she trails off. 

The other nurse sounds bewildered. "I've never seen anything like it. He was only brought in four days ago... it looks like a healing gunshot wound from a month ago."

She hurries out of the room and returns soon enough with a doctor, who scientifically prods and examines Jay's side like his body doesn't belong to a living person. Soon, she too leaves the room.

Jay wonders vaguely if they realise he can hear them. He is too tired to give much thought to their reactions and slowly drifts back to sleep.

***

Sighing, Detective Gina Russo removes the tape from its recorder and examines it once more. It looks like an ordinary cassette tape, and it is definitely the right one – her own handwriting on the label reads “Kralie” and yesterday’s date. There is nothing to indicate that the tape is damaged or broken. Except for the fact that it won’t play.

She shakes it a couple of times, blows into the compartment in the hopes of dislodging any accumulated dust and slots it back into the recorder, hitting play with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

Static blares out yet again. She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, dislodging a few strands from her formerly neat bun. She gets up and paces around the interview room.

The feeling that she is still missing something relating to Kralie has been playing at the back of her mind since they let him walk the day before. She had trouble sleeping last night because of it.

Unfortunately, all she can get out of the tape is hissing and static – when she could get it to play at all. At first she had thought the tape recorder was broken, but trying out other tapes, including that of the interview with Tim Wright, had proven that it wasn’t the tape player. The tape itself is somehow corrupted. She decides to take it down to Nick in the tech department, to see if he can get it working, but as she gets up, she gets a call on her cell. It’s Simons at the county hospital. She remembers that it’s currently his shift outside Jay’s hospital room. She picks up.

“Hey Doug.”

“Hey Gina. Guess who’s just woken up?” 

“Seriously?” She is already getting up and grabbing her stuff with her other hand. “Is he coherent?”

Doug pauses. “Well, he’s talking apparently. It doesn’t sound like he is making a whole lot of sense, though. Still, I’d get over here if I were you. You might be able to get something outta him.”

“On my way.” She ends the call and heads toward the station garage.

*

Russo calls Buford on the way to the hospital, as he is out on a different case. He tells her he will be over as soon as he is done.

Now she strides into the hospital, flashing her badge at a receptionist and making her way hurriedly to Jay’s room. She had visited him only once before, shortly after she had been assigned to his case, but back then he had been unconscious.

She hurries down the corridor, and Doug jumps up from his chair just outside the door to greet her.

He knocks on the door for her, which is opened by a nurse that Russo recognizes from her previous visit - Garcia, she thinks her name was. She is ushered inside.

The young man lying on the bed looks… tired, Russo thinks, but not as sickly as she would have imagined, considering it was only a few days since he nearly died from a gunshot wound. His eyes are open, but he doesn’t look at her as she takes the seat beside his bed. 

“Jay,” she begins. “Can you hear me?” He turns his head a little towards her but doesn’t answer. Despite the lack of verbal response, she tells him who she is and why she is here.

Still no response, and although she is mainly there to assess his ability to answer questions, she decides to go ahead and ask him a few things anyway.  Maybe something might prompt him to talk. 

Once he is fully recovered,  she thinks, they can arrange a formal interview.

She introduces herself and begins. “Jay,” she asks, “can you remember how you ended up here?” 

Jay breathes out, but doesn’t respond.

“Can you remember what happened in Rosswood Park?

After while Jay responds with one rasped-out word. “No.”

“Nothing at all?”

Jay seemed to consider. “Tim…” Russo leaned in, anxious not to miss a word. “Tim got me out…?” He sounds unsure.

Russo went still. _No mention of Wright shooting him in the first place. What if-_

But Jay was speaking again now, and this time it was more than a pained whisper. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“What do you mean, Jay?” Russo asks, concerned.

“I’m not meant to be here… I should be there… with her…” At this, Jay closes his eyes and seems to lapse back into sleep.

Russo glances over at the nurse who had not left the room. She shot her a sympathetic look.

“He’s been like that since he woke up," she whispers. "Not making much sense, but then it’s often the way with trauma victims.”

“How long do you think the recovery will be?” Russo asks her.

At that question, a strange expression crosses the nurse's face. She glances at Jay and then beckons Russo over. Once she is next to her, she whispers: “Mentally, I can’t say how long it will take. But physically –“ she gave Russo a secretive look – “so you know, I’m telling you this in total confidence, but none of us have seen anything like it. Physically, he has almost entirely recovered. If I was the believing type, I would say it was a miracle, but as it is, it is simply… unexplainable. His wound is nearly healed. If you had shown me him and I didn’t know when he was brought in, I would have said he was shot four weeks ago. Not four days.”

Russo clearly looks surprised, so Garcia continues, “The doctors can’t explain it. For now we’re keeping it under wraps. And as you can see his mind hasn’t caught up with his body.”

Russo nods slowly. “Okay, this is just an informal visit, anyway. I can hold off making any formal reports until a doctor clears it.”

“Thank you. All I can say is he is the luckiest guy I’ve ever seen. When he came in and we were told it was a gunshot wound to the stomach, I assumed the worst, but physically at least, he’s well on the way to walking out of here.”

Russo nods again, but her mind is elsewhere. Something the nurse just said had triggered a memory. She gives her thanks and leaves, barely speaking to Doug as she passes him at the coffee vending machine. Her mind is whirling. Not just the information about the young man’s miracle recovery. What was it?

It’s as she heads towards the parking lot that she remembers.

Alex Kralie, parting words. “I imagine a gunshot wound to the stomach is pretty serious.”

A gunshot wound to the stomach.

Except… nobody barring the hospital staff, Buford and herself knew where exactly Jay had been shot. That information had never been released. The media couldn’t have reported it. And when they showed Kralie the photo of the victim, it was just a shot of his head and shoulders: no wound was visible.

_Kralie knows more than he is letting on._

She gets into the car and dials Buford immediately.

As she drives out of the parking lot, she doesn’t notice the young man with glasses sitting by a low wall, mostly hidden, waiting.

***

"Jay, can you hear me?"

Jay forces his eyes open. The edges of his vision are still hazy, but he can make out the face of the nurse taking care of him. Elena, he thinks she said her name was. Her name badge says Nurse Garcia.

He opens his mouth but finds it's too dry to speak. Elena raises his bed until he is almost sitting upright, and then brings a plastic cup of water to his lips. He sips at it. “Better now?” she asks.

"Yes," Jay rasps, thankful for the water. He has no idea what time of day it is. The blinds are drawn and there is no natural light. He knows he has been drifting in and out of sleep since the visit from the police officer, and that he was hooked up to a wide variety of machines and drips until quite recently. The fact that the medical staff seem to be slowly weaning him off them, one after another, makes him think that he must be getting better. He struggles to sit more upright, but a dull twinge from his side makes him wince and fall back against his pillow.

Elena walks to the other side of his bed and presses the button to raise the top of the bed so that he can sit up.

"Jay, you had a visitor. I don't know if you are aware, but we are under strict orders not to let anyone see you, so reception had to turn him away, and I had to let the police department know." She sighs. "Still, I thought it might cheer you up to know that someone out there can't wait to see you better." She smiles kindly at him.

"Who was it?" Jay asks.

"They didn't catch his name. A young man, about your age."

"Tim?" Jay asks, his heart lightening.

She frowns, and looks at him sadly, as if she knows something he doesn't. "No, from what I have heard, I don't think it was Tim."

This confuses Jay, but he presses on. "What did he look like?" Jay can't imagine who else would want to visit him when he is sick... unless...

"Becky on reception spoke to him. She said he was a young man about your age. Tall, with glasses. He left before she could take his name."

Jay stops breathing for a second. Elena notices the expression on his face. "Are you feeling okay? Are the painkillers wearing off?"

Jay just shakes his head. "Fine, no I'm fine."

 


End file.
